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Havve was pissed.
He couldn’t remember what had set him off, exactly, the initial feelings had coalesced into something white and hot burning deep in his gut, his chest, the recesses of his technology-riddled brain, threatening to tear him open, and he had to get it out.
So he screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
It was the only nonviolent release he knew of. Sung had suggested he try it, anything to keep the cyborg from inflicting bodily harm on himself or his bandmates when someone or something slights him, only to immediately regret the passing remark when the sounds of Havve’s relentless screaming filled the air at ungodly hours of the night.
Phobos had nipped the problem in the bud early on with earplugs. As for Meouch, well, it would take a tornado, earthquake, and hailstorm hitting all at once to wake him, which was coincidentally what his snoring sounded like.
Sung just waited it out. He’d lie in bed, clutching his ears, gritting his teeth, hoping it would end soon and then an hour would pass and he’d give up and after another hour manage to fall asleep anyway. He would tell himself to grin and bear it because Havve was his best friend, his biggest success, the one being he trusted more than anyone else, but on these few and far between nights he felt like none of that meant anything.
Two and a half hours in, Sung was still wide awake, ears locked onto the sound instead of determined to tune it out. Havve’s screams were becoming ragged, strained, like his voice was breaking, and with each passing minute it would get worse. He had never pushed himself to the point of losing his voice before, and a part of Sung was concerned for his health. Havve was held together with spare parts and hope, and if his voice were to go out, it wouldn’t be something easily fixable. He was on his third set of lungs, but somehow still had his original larynx. And Sung didn’t have a replacement ready.
Concerned , Sung told himself, as he stepped out of bed and made his way through the house, sock-muffled footsteps making as little sound as possible, as if anyone would hear over the racket from below.
HIs health , he reiterated as the basement door loomed ahead, the ragged screams from below becoming more distinct. His health, and not everyone else’s sanity. He did care for Havve, sometimes he worried that he cared a little too much for both of their own good, but they had all finally gotten accustomed to the same sleeping patterns and Sung was not going to be the odd one out. There had to be something he could do to make it stop.
His hand grazed the doorknob, and the screams were abruptly cut off, turning into disgusting, guttural wheezes.
In an instant, Havve’s rage mixed with panic, something the cyborg was rarely inclined to feel, but could not help as he wheezed, clutching his throat, grasping for his useless voice. Vague cautions from Sung echoed in his head from the last five or so times he’d had a night like this, wisps of phrases about his vocal cords breaking, having to replace them, Havve losing another original body part, another piece of what little of him was left…
Havve wasn’t all that sentimental, but he had also never directly broken a piece of himself before.
Soft footsteps moving in a quick but familiar pattern down the basement stairs signaled that Sung was coming, help was coming, the white hot anger was retreating, the panic receding. Sung would make it all better, like he did when his eyes gave out, and when he found that he couldn’t fall asleep anymore, and when he had to start uploading important memories and feelings to thumb drives, and when he had an 808 shoved into his pried-open chest cavity. Sung would give him his voice back, and he would calm down, and everything would be okay.
Through a filter of nervous static, Havve watched Sung gently approach him, holding out a placating hand and attempting to corral him towards a table. He looked exhausted, worried, with a hint of something else underneath that eluded him at the moment. Determined? Maybe. For what? Hopefully to fix him. His ears were ringing, laced with squealing technological feedback, but he could distantly hear Sung trying to comfort him.
“It’s alright,” he said, easing Havve closer to the table. “I’m going to fix this. I’ll make everything better.”
Sung managed to pry one of Havve’s hands away from his throat, taking it in his own. The table was cleared, the light was in position, tools were nearby, he just had to get Havve on it. He wasn’t acting angry or violent, which was better than anticipated, but he was panicking, something Sung had never seen him do before. It felt odd, almost cruel, thinking about what he was going to do to him.
He was on the table now, still gripping Sung’s hand, tapping out mindless rhythms onto his skin as he readied his tools with his other hand.
Sung didn’t need to ask for permission, hadn’t for centuries at this point. Havve had no choice but to let him work on him. They had a mutual trust, an understanding.
“I’m gonna fix this,” he whispered, more for himself than Havve, before slipping restraints over Havve’s wrists and popping open his chest.
The cyborg’s glowing red eyes flickered and dimmed, and that was all Sung needed to begin his prodding.
First he’d have to remove the demolished larynx and graft something artificial and structurally similar in its place. Then he’d have to flip Havve over to access the back of his head, where the processor parts of his brain were mostly located. This was the part that would make him feel all twisted up inside, he knew. Sung would have to offload a memory or two in order to install the type of programming he had in mind. And then go back to the chest in order to run diagnostics. And back again to double check his work. And then he could close him up, and he could sleep.
Sung mulled this all over as he wriggled his hand into a powder blue glove, coming to one staunch conclusion while snapping it against his wrist.
No rest for the wicked, at least not tonight.
Havve could feel himself waking up, the power returning to his mechanical systems, bringing him slowly back to functionality. He flexed his wrists, noting that he was still restrained, which was odd. Usually, Sung set him free before waking him up. But, he mused groggily, working the haze from brain and processors alike, Sung was probably tired. He could permissibly slip up just this once.
As the static cleared from his vision, he noted that Sung looked more skittish than tired. His shoulders were tensed, hands still gloved, eye wide and staring. Something was wrong.
Havve opened his mouth to speak, to ask “Is everything okay?” and was horrified to find that the voice spilling from his lips was not his own, but a disgusting computerized facsimile. It was loud and harsh and blaring in his ears, rattling around in his head, his chest, every part of him.
Sung mumbled a few words, something about how his volume was remotely controlled now, another discreet button or knob, but Havve could hardly hear him over the sound of this new, fake voice echoing through him. It was his now, but it wasn’t. It was wrong.
Hands clenched into fists, pulling at the thick cloth restraints. They weren’t meant to properly hold him down, more so to keep him in place while Sung was working in his chest, where just about everything was the most delicate, and an involuntary twitch could cause serious damage.
“Havve, listen, I—“ Sung started to speak, choosing his words carefully. “You did this to yourself, buddy, it might be better this way. I did the best I could, but I couldn’t fix it.”
“LIAR,” the voice that was not Havve’s spat, lacking the sting he wanted to send forth. Monotone and droning now, volume was all he had, and it wasn’t enough to make Sung feel the hurt he deserved.
In a sense, Havve had been permanently silenced.
And, as if at the push of a button, the rage sprung forth.
He was off the table and looming over Sung, who had scrambled off of the stool he had been perched on, in a matter of seconds. Silent, unwavering, staring.
Sung stared back, just a few steps away, rattled but ready to hold his ground. “I told you, I tried to fix it! Nothing else worked!” Lying through his teeth, but Havve would never know. He was tired, he was spiteful, it was better this way. It had been happening more and more often. It had to end.
Havve lunged forward to close the gap between the two of them, swinging his arm into a vicious punch that connected directly with Sung’s nose. There was a crack, and a yelp, and the soft pattering of blood hitting the concrete floor in the brief, silent moment that followed. Sung staggered back, bracing one hand against the closest wall while holding the other up to his crooked, bleeding, very obviously broken nose.
“What the fuck was that?!” Sung cried, a red line now trickling over his lips and down his chin. His eye was watery, but he wasn’t crying.
Oh, how Havve would have loved to tell him what the fuck it was, but he couldn’t. Hollow words brought no satisfying justice.
Breaking his nose, though, that felt good.
Hissing in pain, Sung brought his hand away from his face, and Havve saw a chance to do a bit more damage. He was riding the high now, chasing the feeling. A hand locked around Sung’s throat, soon joined by the other to lift him off the ground just enough for the two of them to lock eyes. He wasn’t fighting back. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t hurt him.
That’s what he always told me , Havve thought as he began to squeeze. Sung brought his hands up to grab at Havve’s wrist and began kicking his dangling feet, trying to speak, but the words unable to escape him.
His face screwed into a hateful expression, one Havve had never seen before. He decided it looked ugly on him.
Sung’s head and back hit the wall behind him hard, a dull thud echoing in the dark, quiet room, followed quickly by another as Havve released him and he crumpled to the floor.
And there he stayed, in the silence he thought he had so desperately wanted.